Skyscrapers
by Lady Absolute
Summary: She, the leader of Thunderclan. He, the leader of Riverclan. Sharing their sorrow with each, and the clouds. Slight CrookedstarXBluestar


**Skyscraper**

The clouds cry silently, giving none a chance to share in their sorrow.

Their tears hit the ground, quietly, and sink into the ground to hide away from the coming sun.

The shadows cover the forest, the moor, the marsh, the river, even the widening town.

None are spared from watching the silent storm, a storm where none have the urge to race through the rain.

Only to watch it _tap, tap, tap_ onto the cold, drenched earth.

Just as he is doing.

He can hear the rain hit the river, as if giving in to its perpetual movement, not wanting to stay in its sky of sorrow.

It soaks into his tabby fur.

Dripping off of spikes of wet light brown fur to roll into the river.

He can hear the whispers of his worried clanmates, wondering if their fearless leader is alright.

Fearless, hah!

Him?

He could never be fearless, afraid of a spirit that could kill his loved ones, afraid of disappointing what little family he has left, even if they are not his by blood.

But then again, he has nothing left to lose, except for his kit.

But she would be better off without him.

No urge to return home after a battle, no qualms about dying on a patch of blood soaked dirt.

His green eyes narrow as he spots a shape across the strangely slow river.

A she-cat sitting directly across from him.

Her piercing blue eyes looking at him, her beautiful round head cocked off towards to side.

Though she looked at him, he could tell that his fellow leader was lost in thought, having caught her staring off at the camp across the river many times.

For a moment they simply stared at each other.

This was the first time he had ever acknowledged her in their shared contemplation of events that were the cause of their misery.

The loss of their loved ones, sacrifices that shouldn't have been needed, the burden of leadership.

Then, with a nearly invisible nod, she stands up on whitening blue gray legs and heads off for the falls.

He stands up and follows the younger cat.

Dancing around brambles and fallen branches, they make their way to the rushing cascade of water.

She touches her nose to his.

That one movement conveys more than words ever could, carrying the companionship that shared sorrow can bring.

Then they settle down next to each other, watching their tiny world.

She turns her head and buries herself in his thick, drenched pelt.

Sobbing into the fur of her old, old friend.

They share a moment, just the two of them, the same memories dancing in their minds.

Of two cats, one a she-cat, the other a tom, meeting for the first time.

Of the same cats fighting one another, the blue gray she-cat hesitant and unwilling to hurt her one time friend.

Of sitting together watching the clans gather to hear their words.

Then, they leave.

Towards their own camps, towards protective medicine cats and motherly elders.

But never to family.

And yet they go on, their resolves strengthened in that one moment of friendship.

In another world they could have been mates.

And in yet another world she could have ended up with his brother.

And in another they could have ended up dead.

But they would choose this life above all others.

For reasons they share only with each other, in near silent conversations.

Then they must part.

For if she is seen with a Riverclanner she reminds herself of the tom she lost, and the kit they had brought into the world.

And if he is seen with a Thunderclanner he reminds himself of the gray she-cat he lost, the kits that never lived to see the day their sister fell in love.

And when they return to their homes, they can fall back into their masks.

To protect themselves from those that could ever oppose them.

Never for themselves, but for those like themselves who have none to look out for them.

Like a tom cloaked in flames.

Or two gray half-clan siblings that have lost their family, but don't even know it.

For them, they stand tall against the storm that gave him his first ever name.

Against the battles that tore her mother away from her.

Standing tall for as long as they possibly can, until they die, in battle.

Their lifeblood slowly pumping out into a pool around them.

Or perhaps dying of heart ache and of too much water having gotten into her lungs.

Or perhaps a slow, peaceful death, surrounded by those that cared for him, but headed for a better place.

Till then, they will stand, alone.

Forever alone.


End file.
